A Fatal Attraction To Trouble
I was the man who robbed you in return.
Did you honestly expect me to just hand over my wallet to you?
I’m a foot taller than you.
Did you honestly expect me to be scared of your kitchen knife?
I love how you peed yourself when I opened my trunk and cocked a shotgun in your face.
Did you honestly expect me to let you call my girlfriend a whore?
I used the money from your wallet to buy her some New Years lingerie.
I threw your clothes in the dumpster behind Best Buy, across from the theatres.
Are you still tied with jumper cables to the handicapped sign pole? I hope not.
Thank you for the use of your credit card. You can get away with not showing identification at Safeway, Chevron, and many other places. You just saved me a fortune on alcohol for New Years, groceries for two weeks at least, and I also got a full take of gas. I also bought myself some New Year’s cologne from the mall, ate a sensible lunch at Subway, and my girlfriend wanted some shoes at Saks Fifth Avenue; and I renewed both our gym passes. Then, it was maxed out, and I was sad. I think it was the shoes that did that. Sorry.
I sold your gold jewelry to a pawn store in Tempe, one plaza down from the 99 cent store. Same for your diamond (and it was real, to think I doubted you) stud earring. I stuffed the money from those items in the crippled children’s jar at 7/11.
I think your knife might be in the street still, or the parking lot where you tried to rob me.
So, Mr. Robber, the next time you try to mug a 6’8, 230 pound, man who grew up middle class white trash, please, think twice. My kind, doesn’t like your kind.
In fact we hate everything about you.
The man who robbed a robber.